Christmas Spirit
by disenchantedphoenix
Summary: Sherlock Holmes, the ice cold detective with seemingly no imagination, is actually writing a letter to Santa.


Sitting in 221B, John looked around sadly. There wasn't a lot of holiday cheer. Unsurprisingly, Christmas wasn't really Sherlock's thing. Even mention anything Christmas related, and Sherlock would refuse to speak further.

John supposed that the holidays hadn't been great for Sherlock and Mycroft, but then again maybe they were fine, and Sherlock was just being his sentiment detesting self.

John had always had big, traditional Christmases growing up. Big dinners, trees, everything. He wasn't asking that from Sherlock; personally he always thought it was a little over the top. But for Christ's sake, he didn't want to _ignore _Christmas.

He had managed to get a tree behind the detective's back and decorate it with some old ornaments. When Sherlock saw it he scowled, but other wise did nothing.

Now he was staring at it. It was a sad sight. It was very small, and some of the branches were dying. The few decorations were from his childhood; all handmade and full of glitter, as children often do. There were, however, some nice ones, and the angel at the top was particularly pretty.

He had put his one modest gift for Sherlock underneath the tree. He expected nothing in return, and honestly didn't think it would be acknowledged. But Sherlock was his friend (He still didn't know how that happened.) and he wanted to do something nice for the detective.

John sighed and rose from his chair, making his way into the kitchen for some tea. He found Sherlock sitting at the table with his long limbs splayed out at awkward angles.

"John," he greeted, nodding his head. He seemed to be trying to write something, but the paper in front of him was blank.

"What's that your doing?" John asked. He didn't think they were working any cases at the moment.

"Oh, nothing." he said casually. "Just writing a letter to Santa."

John did a double take. Then made sure he heard right. "You can't be serious. You, the high and mighty genius who doesn't deal with imagination, are writing a letter to _Santa_."

Sherlock glowered at him. "Don't be an imbecile John; I'm not actually going to send it. I was just curious what would come to me if I asked myself what I wanted most."

John busied himself making tea. "And what did you come up with exactly? Let me guess, a game of Cluedo."

To his surprise, Sherlock actually laughed a little. "No, of course not. That would be horribly dull." He crossed the room to John in a few steps, holding up his list. "This was the only thing I could think of."

John glanced up at it. Then did another double take. Then almost dropped his tea. On the paper was one thing.

His name.

John Watson, written in elegant, curving script.

Sherlock moved closer to him, stooping a little. There noses were almost touching, and John could feel the taller man's breath on his face.

"I have come to the conclusion," he said softly in his low baritone. "That you are the one thing I want, John."

He stared up at Sherlock, still not believing what was being said. "But…you…I thought…," he sputtered.

Sherlock turned and began pacing. "Yes, I know what you thought. You must be the exception, though. I wonder why."

The detective began walking circles around him, seizing him up. "You're good looking, but nothing special. Normal intelligence level, completely normal in every way." Their eyes locked. "So what is it about you, John Watson, that makes me love you?"

He stared at the detective open mouthed. This was a surprise, to say the least. He had long ago suppressed any feelings he might have for Sherlock, believing he was asexual. Now they were all coming to the surface, and it was leaving him speechless.

"And judging by your increased pulse, deep breathing, and dilated pupils, you feel the same way/"

He crossed the room again, and before John could think to do anything, Sherlock kissed him.

Their lips pressed together firmly, and Sherlock's hand rested on his cheek. After a moment, he closed his eyes and put his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer. When he felt the detective's tongue against his lips, he readily agreed. He felt it brushing around his mouth, surprisingly chaste. John was sorry when he pulled away.

Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "Yes, you definitely feel the same."

John finally found his voice. "Oh, God yes."

"Good." Sherlock began pulling him into the bedroom, and John readily followed, leaving his tea to get cold.


End file.
